The Ninth circle

21st September

I have pored over and over the photo in vain. I have sat and stared at it for hours. I found the card that had been in with the package, giving the address and phone number of the Italian antique bookshop. When I phoned the number, the elderly owner of the shop answered the phone and recognised me at once, greeting me warmly — firm proof that the book had indeed been a costly purchase. I spoke to him in Italian for some minutes about the book, and am confident that he knew nothing of the picture. For one thing, when I suggested that something had happened to the back cover that had necessitated its repair, he sounded quite alarmed and assured me that he had not had any need to repair the book. I learned that he had one young man who assisted him in the shop, so I suppose it’s possible that this assistant could have placed the photograph inside the back cover for some strange reason — but it would have had to be a strange reason indeed. When I asked where the book had come from, the shop owner said he had purchased it from a private collector over ten years ago. For some reason, the book had been difficult to sell.

I was sure that the photo was not ten years old — for one thing, the woman had looked the same as when I’d last seen her, which meant that the photo must have been hidden in the book while in the possession of the dealer. The only reason I could see for perpetuating such a childlike prank would be to perplex and disturb the buyer of the book. Perhaps, after all, it was nothing more than a coincidence that I had seen this woman a few weeks ago; but I find that difficult to believe.

I didn’t know anything about any weeping willow but, of course, I knew who Neville Chamberlain was. I can’t help but feel for the man. It was hardly his fault that Hitler was a nutcase who couldn’t be reasoned with. The holocaust wasn’t his fault any more than it was Churchill’s or Roosevelt’s, or any other of the world leaders during that time.

While reading about the Second World War on the internet, I came across something that referred to a Holocaust Memorial in Budapest, so yesterday I went to see it. I stood staring at it in perplexity for some time, for it takes the graceful form of a weeping willow. It’s in memory of the 600,000 Hungarian Jews killed by the Nazis during the war, so why would anyone refer to it as Neville Chamberlain’s tree? Surely, if the tree belongs to any one man, that man is Adolf Hitler?

There is something poignant and sad about the elegant fronds of the aptly named tree, immortalised in honour of those who fell prey to Hitler’s demon-driven sins. I stood and gazed at it for a while, feeling regretful and ashamed on behalf of the human race in general. Then I went home.

How was the mystery woman mixed up in all this? The image of the weeping willow, and the history that had caused its tears, depressed me and I found I was unable to shake the bleak mood that was haunting me. I had no appetite and I did not feel like going out, so for once I decided to break my usual routine and go to bed early.

It didn’t work. Nightmares ruined any hope I might have had of shaking this unsettled frame of mind. I dreamed I was at St Stephen’s Basilica, seeing the sacred building overrun with Nazi soldiers. The flickering light of flames from elsewhere in the city danced through the windows of the church, and distant screams and shouts were carried in on the night air. There were monks running, sobbing… Mephistopheles was playing the huge organ and three Nazis were exclaiming in delight over the size and value of the huge old bell that had just been taken down from the bell tower. A monk was begging, pleading with the soldiers not to take it. One of them looked round and shot him in the head before turning back to the bell, and I recoiled in horror as he fell onto the stone flagstones, blood staining his robes and spreading in a pool around him. What madness was this? Jesus Christ, it was just a fucking bell!

And then a tall man, dripping with flames, walked into the church, past the engrossed Nazis, and gazed down at the fallen monk. He looked up, gazing right at me, and I flinched instinctively from the hatred in his eyes. Then he was gone, to be replaced by the mystery woman from the alley. I yelled at her to get out of the church before the Nazis saw her, but it was as if she couldn’t hear me over the screaming and the deafening music Mephistopheles was playing on the organ. To my horror, she walked up to the soldiers and asked them to help her find her way home. I braced myself for the ringing gunshot and the thump of her body falling down lifeless next to the deceased monk, but it never came. The Nazis turned to the woman kindly and assured her that they would help. And, although I screamed at her not to trust them, I was unable to move and was forced to watch, helpless, as the soldiers became devils, surrounded the woman, and took her out into the burning city. When I woke up this morning, I was even more restless and unsettled than I had been last night. I washed and dressed, then took out one of my books on Budapest and read about St Stephen’s Basilica. There was the by now familiar sensation of memories being brought to the surface as I read that the cathedral had indeed been looted by the Nazis in 1944. After the nightmare, I decided to go and see it for myself, in an attempt to shake the horrible air of foreboding that had clung to me ever since I drove a kitchen knife through the old red book.

It was bright, sunny and warm again today, and the white cathedral was a beautiful sight. It’s unusually shaped, with two towers rising on either side at the front of the building, and in the centre a 300-foot Neo-Renaissance dome that is visible from all over Budapest.

When I climbed the semicircular white steps at the front and went inside, I was stunned by the richness of the interior. The ground plan is shaped like a Greek cross and the walls, floor and ceiling are all covered in blue marble and gold and bronze and mosaics and paintings and murals. Tall white candles stood in golden candlesticks attached to square red marble pillars; white angels curved over the top of gold studded arches and pink marble pulpits, which had fat, white cherubs perched on top, gazing down at the congregation. The final glory was the many stained-glass windows speckling it all with so many different colours. It was stunning and I couldn’t help but feel sickened at the idea of Nazis desecrating this beautiful place with their presence — greedily looting its treasures to line their own filthy pockets. And for what? What was that bell to them but so many Deutschmarks? Money to be spent on women, alcohol, and the pursuit of other disreputable prizes.

There’s an observation point at the top of the bell tower, and I stood savouring the view from it for some time. I could see the Hungarian Parliament building and the old palace and, every now and then, part of the Danube weaving through the splendour. Held above the city in such a way, leaning on the wall with a gentle, warm breeze stirring my hair, I felt relaxed and at peace in a way I haven’t known since losing my memory. What did it matter if I could not remember who I was? God knew.

The bell now hanging in the bell tower was bought by German Catholics as a replacement for the one taken by the Nazis. Such a thing pleases me. The Germans who paid for the new bell were not the ones who stole the old one and I admire them for putting right a wrong that they were not responsible for.

After a while, I turned back for the stairs. There are two staircases through the hollow dome — one carries on all the way to the ground, and one leads back to the elevator. For one wild moment, as I took the stairs leading to the ground, I thought I glimpsed the mystery woman standing on the staircase opposite leading to the elevator; but when I looked back sharply I clearly saw that there were only two elderly men making their way down the stairs to the lift. My mind is just playing tricks on me. The photograph is upsetting me. I think the best thing will be to hide it away under the floorboards in my cupboard along with all the other things I don’t want to think about. I do not remember this woman. There is nothing I can do. If she needs my help, she will have to come and ask me for it herself.

3rd October

I am starting to fear that there might be something wrong with me. I went out to eat in a new restaurant this evening, and the waitress asked if I would like my steak angolosan — cooked rare. I said that would be fine and after about twenty minutes, the meal was delivered to my table. I had planned to eat and then walk back to my apartment block, taking in the cool evening air before going to bed.

But the steak was very rare indeed, still a light pink colour; and, as soon as I sank my knife into the tender slab of beef, some red blood oozed out of the sides, staining the plate and running into the vegetable juices, collecting in clotted pools and swirls. I cannot do justice to the strength of my utter revulsion in that moment. Suddenly, my appetite was gone, and I felt sick at the sight of those scarlet droplets splattered across my plate and dripping from the end of my knife.

Before I knew what I was doing, I had jumped up and overturned the entire table with a yell. Christ — I cringe now at the spectacle I must have made of myself. The china plates and cutlery fell to the floor with a room-silencing crash, and nearby customers shrank back in alarm as the staff rushed over and implored me to calm down. But my mind kept replaying the memory of my knife plunging into the pink flesh and the scarlet blood that had bled onto the plate.

I can’t explain why the sight caused me such horror, but I was suddenly quite sure that I was going to be sick. I pushed the staff aside and just managed to make it outside before folding over double and retching there on the pavement, much to the alarm of various passers-by and an old couple who had been looking at the menu. They left pretty quickly. I suppose the sight of a man sprinting out of a restaurant to throw up is not the highest recommendation.

I would like to think that it hadn’t been the steak. That it had perhaps been something I ate earlier that day. But the nausea came upon me so suddenly. There wasn’t any warning. If there had been, I certainly wouldn’t have been vomiting in the street where all those people could stare at me. There seems to be a pattern emerging here. Sometimes… I almost seem to lose my mind…

The way I see it is this: either I truly am a madman, or else these episodes are triggered by my subconscious in response to some event that occurred before I lost my memory. And I know, I know I’m not mad. So this scares me, all this. I wish it would all stop. I walked home quickly last night in case the restaurant called the police or something equally alarmist. I just kept my head down, cheeks burning with shame, and carried on walking.

When I got back to my apartment block, I paused outside it and drew out the battered box of fish food from my pocket. I glared at it for a minute in the weak light of the street lamp, hating it. Then I dropped it into the nearby trashcan and went upstairs to bed.